


Brothers Moriarty

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: Brothers Moriarty [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "Swinger", "Tiger" - Freeform, Aftermath of a Case, Army nicknames are cool, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother John Watson, But Seb's not MINOR, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Guess which one is John's?, Implied Johnlock, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's For a Case, Jim's a misguided sweetheart, Jim's a showy moron, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moran's a good bro, No more tags!, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sebastian Moran & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Lives!, Sherlock is John Watson's idiot, Who is David Strader?, platonic Johniarty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: My take on the following BBC Sherlock Headcanon: "In the pool scene, when John comes out, Sherlock believed just for a moment that John is Moriarty and that John Watson never existed. He was so freaked out that he didn't even notice John had changed coats. At the end of TRF Sherlock counts this as the most terrifying moment of his life and is ashamed that he doubted John, even briefly, when John never doubted him."What if John WAS Moriarty, but not in the way people think? What if he wasn't JUST John Watson? What if John Watson and Jim Moriarty were...brothers? Not like foster-siblings but legit blood-family? What if John's records weren't as clean as they looked, what if he had a record that had been sealed (think juvie)? What if he KNEW Sebastian Moran? I mean, beyond any service in the Army together? This is my take! Please enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Standard notes:
> 
> bold = text/email conversation
> 
> "italics" = phone conversation

* * *

Waking up in a dark room, storage closet, if he had to guess, with a splitting headache, was definitely not John Watson’s idea of a good night. He remembered being on Baker Street, just outside the flat, but absolutely _nothing_ after someone came at him from behind with a needle. Something nasty, definitely. Ketamine? Maybe. He couldn’t move his arms, his shoulder was starting to hurt, and his legs felt a little numb. Never mind his head: blurry vision, dry mouth, and…oh, lovely. Gagged. Typical. Who’s special brand of numbskull thugs had pulled him from Baker Street? He had words for that moron, strong words. Especially if it was the particularly awful moron who had been teasing Sherlock for a month and putting people’s lives in danger for the sake of a stupid little _game_. He was somewhere near a pool, judging by the smell of chlorine and pool chemicals. Great. Just fucking great. If he got out of this alive, Sherlock was a dead man. He tested the restraints and groaned. Handcuffs? _Really?_ No originality, none at all. Leaning his head back, John wondered if anyone had missed him yet or if Sherlock even knew he was gone. Probably _not_ , knowing Sherlock. He was so fixated on figuring out the bomber nothing else mattered. With John’s luck, he was probably the next victim. Before he could bother figuring out what they’d tied his feet with, John heard footsteps outside his cramped prison. A door opened nearby with an awful creaking, grating sound, scraping against the textured floor, which was rather damp. John squeezed his eyes shut and groaned again.

“John? Oh, I _told_ them to be careful! Bloody idiots _never_ listen!” That was…was that…? John’s brain scrambled to catch up to what he was hearing. He knew that voice. Oh god, he _knew_ that voice! He heard the jangle of keys and a ratcheting click. Then the handcuffs were gone, his feet were free, and the gag came off. “Jesus, what did they _do_ to you?”

“Jim?” He coughed, squinting. Yep, it was Jim. Silly little James Moriarty, who hadn’t always been James Moriarty. He’d been Jimmy Spencer once, a very long time ago. Behind that expensive suit that looked like it probably belonged in Sherlock’s closet, and that slicked-back hair, it was still Jimmy. Despite the weight on his shoulders, he knew the weight of a bomb-vest when he felt one, John smiled.

“Heya, Johnny.”

“Oh, you sly little shit!” He chuckled, “I _thought_ that was you at the hospital! I _knew_ it was you!”

“Still kept your mouth shut, yeah?”

“Not really high on my list of priorities for my flat-mate to know I’m blood to his new best friend.” John grimaced and rubbed his wrists, knowing it would take a while for the marks to heal, “No handcuffs next time.”

“Sorry about that.”

“And what’s _this_ for?” He patted the vest under the coat that definitely wasn’t his, “Not the real deal, is it?”

“Eh.” A cringe, a grimace. He sighed.

“Who’s the mad one, Jimmy?”

“Sorry.”

“EOD wasn’t _really_ my thing, y’know?” He unzipped the coat, a green hooded parka, and got a look at the mess, “Oh, one of _these_. Pfft.” He snickered, looking at Moriarty, “You couldn’t do better than this?” Fiddling with a couple of the wires, he spent ten minutes working on the vest. A few sharp tugs with a multi-tool and everything went quiet.

“Who said EOD wasn’t your thing?” Moriarty smiled and handed him gaffers tape. He taped up the wires and no one was the wiser. Well. There.

“So, you’re the one after Sherlock Holmes.”

“Fascinating bloke, ain’t he?”

“Run, Jimmy.” John rolled his eyes as he zipped up the jacket again, leaving the vest in place, “Don’t even _touch_ Sherlock. He’s out of your league and blood we may be, but I don’t want anyone getting hurt. You _or_ him.”

“Aww. You’re no fun!”

“I’m the sensible one, remember?” He tried to stand up, but his knees buckled, a nasty ache in his left knee. “Damn it.”

“Didn’t get the credit you deserved for that, did you?” Moriarty caught him under the arm, “Pity, that.”

“Eh. You know me, good at scraping by on nothing.” He looked around, “Where the hell _are_ we?”

“Camden.” Moriarty grinned, “Remember little Carl Powers?”

“Ugh. What a prick _he_ was! You _know_ Sherlock had that one figured out the next week, right?”

“Of course! And nobody believed him.”

“Nobody believed a ten-year-old kid capable of cold-blooded murder, either.” John coughed, reaching for his shoulder, “The sooner you get me out of this vest, the better.”

“Shoulder acting up?”

“Just a bit.”

“Sorry about that.” Moriarty tucked an earpiece into his left ear, “That’s for you, I’ve got another one, Sebby’s got eyes on the target, orders to hold his fire.”

“Moran?!”

“Mmhmm.”

“Jesus, where did you find _him_?” John remembered Sebastian Moran, but not for the reasons some people might think. They’d been kids together, separated only when they went to different families, and reunited later in the Army before Seb had gotten himself booted for dishonourable conduct. Shooting an “unarmed, pregnant civilian” had landed him in pretty hot water. It later turned out, too late for his sake, that the woman had in fact been hauling enough explosives to level a barracks building. John had been so angry about it, he’d nearly gotten himself kicked out. The Army was spared that embarrassment when he got himself shot a month later, but they were forced to discharge _him_ with honours. They didn’t like that at all. To spite them, John had kept nearly all of his gear. His tags, his uniforms, his weapons. Everything. Technically they couldn’t reclaim the gear without raising a stink, so he lived in relative peace, cursing his PTSD and his shoulder, his knee on bad days, and hating the skimpy pension he got from the Veterans Affairs officers.

“Yoohoo!” a hand waved in his peripheral vision.

“Damn! Jim!” He shook off the recall and glared at Moriarty.

“What? You’re the one who went vacant, son.” Moriarty smirked, “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

“Yeah right. And I’m still the big brother.” To prove his point, he lunged for Moriarty who dodged left, misjudged, and paid for it when John grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him in, and head-locked him.

“Okay! Okay! Point taken! Put me down!”

“Why? I don’t get to pick on anybody anymore, y’know?” He ruffled Moriarty’s hair, still soft and wavy as it had been when they were so much younger and less twisted. Not quite _innocent_ , but far less twisted by the world’s real troubles.

“Stop it! Put me down!”

“Oh, _fine_.” John let Moriarty go, and burst out laughing at the sight of his brother dishevelled and rumpled, “Oh, sorry about that.”

“Like hell you are!”

“No, I’m not. At all.” he snickered, “Better clean up before my idiot flatmate arrives.”

“What makes you think he’ll show up?”

“Because I know Sherlock Holmes.” John looked around, “This radio go both ways?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Fantastic. Hang on a mo.” he fiddled with the radio and got a frequency that he suspected would link him to the eagle-eyed sniper waiting outside. “How many did you put up there?”

“Three. Seb, Alec, and Sanja.”

“Where did you find Sanja Došen?”

“Keeping her head down in Bosnia of all places.”

“Charming.” John rolled his eyes, “Does Seb still answer to his handle?”

“Most of the time.”

“Tiger?”

“Oh, _you_ still call him that!”

“Always will.” He chuckled and pinged the radio, “Tiger, this is Swinger. Come back?” There was a crackle of static and he waited. He didn’t miss Moriarty mouthing “Swinger? What?” There was a soft click and he grinned. Yep, there it was.

_“Swinger, Tiger. Radio close?”_

“Channel’s clear, sir. How’s business, Seb?”

_“Oh, Christ! Watson! Where are you?”_

“Twiddling my thumbs in a dark storage closet waiting for my prat of a flat-mate to show himself.” He sniffed, “Place smells like chlorine, I’ll have nightmares for months.”

_“You alright, Johnny?”_

“No lasting damage done.” John smiled, “By the way, any idea what the idiot thugs might have dosed me with up on Baker Street? I’ve got a splitting headache, double vision, and my mouth feels like I swallowed half the sand in Kandahar.”

_“Ketamine. Probably more than needed, knowing them. Thanks for the visuals, son.”_

“Just the honest truth, sir.” John ruffled his hair, nodding his thanks when Jim handed an open bottle of water. He hesitated and raised an eyebrow. All that got him was an eye-roll.

“It’s _clean_ , idiot. I wouldn’t poison my own brother.”

“But you’d strap him to a bomb-vest?” John made a face, “You owe me, big time. The stupid things I do for my flat-mate.” Every day he risked his neck stepping out his door to run after Sherlock as he went off on another wild chase through London, but even this was more than he’d bargained for.

**:::**

Ten minutes later, brandishing the thumb-drive with the Bruce-Partington missile-defence plans on it like a tiny trophy or bargaining chip, Sherlock Holmes got the shock of a lifetime when John stepped out zipped into that bomb-vest and parka and, for just _one_ split second, thought he was Moriarty. Which wasn’t that far off the mark, but besides the point. And John never told his flatmate that the thumb-drive he had carelessly handed over to a true madman, never mind that the man in question was John’s family and blood, was actually a dud and the real thing was secure in his lockbox back at Baker Street and would be discretely returned to Mycroft Holmes as soon as this had blown over.

Walking away from Camden Community Pool still high on the rush you got from narrowly escaping certain death, having stared it right in the face, John wondered how much more trouble his little brother would be bringing to Baker Street’s doorstep and took a moment to hope he would at least be tactful about things. Nothing too outrageous, please, for all their sakes? But that was hoping for too much, Jim and Sherlock were too much alike and both far too fond of ridiculous dramatics for anything comfortably low-scale or harmless. All he could do was run damage control and hope for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the chain of cases later nicknamed The Great Game, followed a few months later by the most bizarre encounter and a case requiring a legitimate gag-order and a distaste for Mycroft Holmes’s particular brand of secrecy and lack of useful information, John decided to bide his time. He stayed in touch with Jim and Seb, all in secret, and kept an ear to the ground for rumblings of a bigger storm coming. It all came to a head in November of the following year when Jim got it into his head that Sherlock needed to be brought down a peg or two and set about subtly but systematically destroying him by name and reputation in the papers, humiliating him in the eyes of his friends and peers and giving those who disliked him the fodder they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things got kind of interesting for me. And the boys. I tried to split this up, but there never seemed to be a good place to break the chapter up without messing up flow. So...yeah, here ya go!  
> ***  
> bold = text/email  
> "italics" = phone/radio  
> ***  
> slight OOC-ness, I make no apologies.

* * *

After the chain of cases later nicknamed The Great Game, followed a few months later by the most bizarre encounter and a case requiring a legitimate gag-order and a distaste for Mycroft Holmes’s particular brand of secrecy and lack of useful information, John decided to bide his time. He stayed in touch with Jim and Seb, all in secret, and kept an ear to the ground for rumblings of a bigger storm coming. 

It all came to a head in November of the following year when Jim got it into his head that Sherlock needed to be brought down a peg or two and set about subtly but systematically destroying him by name and reputation in the papers, humiliating him in the eyes of his friends and peers and giving those who disliked him the fodder they needed. John tracked his brother down in the middle of this nightmarish madness to demand answers.

“What did I _say_ , Jim!”

“Oh, calm down, will you? It’s fine!” Jim was his usual careless, flamboyant self, but there was something beneath it.

“It’s _not_ fine! I’m about to lose every shred of credibility I _have_ because of this! Sherlock Holmes goes down, I go down with him, I hope you know that?” John absently cracked his knuckles, not to intimidate, just to do something with his hands, “We might be family, but he’s my everything. If you hurt him, you hurt me, and you know what I do to people who don’t listen.”

“It’s just a bit of _fun_ , Johnny, no need to worry.”

“Jim, don’t.” He ran one hand through his hair, “I can’t lose _either_ of you, not Sherlock, not you. Please, whatever you’re doing, don’t do anything drastic.”

“Just keep your cool head down, big brother.” Jim smiled and John gave in to sentiment and hugged his little brother.

“Be _smart_ about this, Jimmy M. Be smart, please?” It was worth a shot to beg for insight, whether he got it or not was different. A few days later, Jim pulled his last stupid stunt and John had to watch. At the end of the day, everything he cared about, everything he’d built his life around in the last twenty-two months, was broken and set to be buried. He bullied his way into the morgue and scared poor, sweet Molly Hooper just to get a good look at _both_ of the bodies. Finally, he backed her into a corner and blocked her in.

“Listen. That’s my fucking _family_ , Doctor Hooper.” He pointed at the shelves, “I have every damn right to see their bodies. Am I clear on this?”

“F-family?” The cute pathologist stammered.

“Next-of-kin to Jim Moriarty, who treated you like a fucking _queen_ , and first on the list of people to notify for Sherlock Holmes above his damn brother.”

“You’re his brother!” She gasped, “Oh my god!”

“Let. Me. See. Them.” He snarled. Molly, not knowing what else to do and out of her element with John in such a bad mood, pulled each of the bodies from the shelves and let him identify them both. That’s when he realized something. Sherlock had always been smart, cocky, and irresponsible, but he usually had a plan in place. This one was probably his most elaborate yet, and John fought off a smile as he picked up little traces that Sherlock was alive. He was supposed to _look_ dead, but he wasn’t. That was alright, John would be patient and wait until Sherlock finished his work. Whatever it happened to be. Jim, on the other hand, was stone-cold dead. He felt a bit of his heart shatter and ruffled cool, soft hair.

“Sorry, Jimmy M. I told you, didn’t I? Told you not to do it, told you to be careful. You did this to yourself and then made me watch you do it. I should hate you.” He took the stiff hand, “I can’t wish you peace, but I will. It’s the right thing to do. We were family.” Having identified both bodies, he thanked Molly and left the morgue. He apologised for scaring her, for being rude, but it was his family and someone had to do it. He didn’t say anything about knowing Sherlock was alive, he wasn’t supposed to know.

As he left the hospital, John was half-expecting to be stopped by Mycroft Holmes and ordered into one of his cars. He _saw_ Mycroft, exchanged words with him, and left on his own.

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft stopped him at the entrance to the hospital. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“What will you do with your brother’s body?” It was a legitimate question, asked with genuine concern. Of course he knew, he’d probably known since it started back in 2010 when Jim Moriarty had first come to their attention. There was a strange sadness to the way he asked, and John sighed. Outside, he saw a black SUV pass the hospital and disappear around the corner of the ambulance station. Seb’s pick-up, no doubt. His, too, if he wanted. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he fetched it out.

“I don’t know. Cremation, most likely. He didn’t have many friends, so I don’t need to worry about a service or any of that bother. There’s a family-plot for him, I’ll put him there.”

“Very well. You know, my brother was very fond of you, Doctor Watson. Worried about you.”

“We worried about each other, Mr Holmes. Your brother was the most important person in my life, but this got in the way of a few things. All I can wish for is a miracle and a second chance sometime in the future.” He pushed the door open when he saw Seb outside on the tarmac, “Oh, and one more thing?”

“Yes, Doctor Watson?”

“If you need any help with Moriarty’s network, let me know. I can help.”

“I couldn’t risk putting you in danger like that, Doctor Watson. Sherlock would never forgive me.”

“Then let me put it to you this way,” he turned to face Mycroft properly, “I know every single one of the upper-tier operatives my brother ran. I know their names, their aliases, their bolt-holes, where they are right now and where they’ll be next week.” He shrugged, “I don’t know what ridiculous operation you had planned, but all I need to do is tug on one particular string and everything collapses from the top-down. You can do it your way if you want, risk any of your operatives you have lined up for this, or you can trust your own mole. I have a team of people I trust, people who answer to me and to Jim.”

“But…the snipers?”

“A scare-tactic that both of you fell for. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were both in legitimate danger, but my sniper wasn’t about to pull his trigger.” John stepped out onto the tarmac, “And I guarantee you no one will ever have their cross-hairs on anyone else we know and love. I will spill blood to ensure the safety of my loved ones.” He didn’t miss the look on Mycroft’s face and chuckled. “I’m not just a kind, sweet-natured doctor, Mr. Holmes. I will put my life on the line for Sherlock Holmes, I will clear his name on my own, but you are not leaving me out of your plans anymore. I think I have a bit more knowledge of things than you do, so if you want to do this right, come and talk to me. I’ll be on Baker Street.” He walked across the street to Seb and they went to the waiting car.

“Think you scared him, Johnny?”

“I gave him something to think about.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through messages, “Any word from Alec and Sanja?”

“Sitting on their targets.”

“Time to cull the herd.” He sent out a text to two numbers in his phone that had never been used before, and wouldn’t be used again after today.

 

**Holmes and Moriarty dead. Retreat to Richmond safe-house. Stand by for orders. Coast not clear. M. Holmes on the warpath. - J**

 

After sending that message, he and Seb drove out to a safe-house in South Sheen. After setting up the house, they waited down the street until the two snipers left returned to the house. Waiting fifteen minutes, he set off the charges they had laid around the house and were gone before anyone arrived from the fire department. It would be written off as a gas-explosion, and Alec and Sanja would be buried in unmarked graves.

“Baker Street?”

“Yep.” He ruffled his hair, “And you’re staying, by the way. Mrs Hudson doesn’t mind you.”

“Yes, sir.” Seb grinned and they headed back to London. Mrs. Hudson was in near hysterics when they got back to Baker Street, and he sat and let his landlady cry for two hours before he put her down with drugged tea. She would sleep until the next morning, without waking. She deserved it. After taking a visit from Mycroft Holmes, who informed them of plans for Sherlock’s funeral, they ordered in for take-away and watched crap telly until it got late. John slept in Sherlock’s room, Seb slept in his old room upstairs, and they moved on with their lives the next morning.

**:::**

Two weeks later, he attended Sherlock’s funeral, one of many admirers and well-wishers who came to see the disgraced detective laid to rest. It wasn’t as hard to play the part of the grieving partner as he’d thought, he really was upset, but as he looked in on the body on display in the coffin, he knew the Holmes brothers had put their plans in motion already. He sighed and shook his head.

“Stupid git.” He muttered, “Told you to trust me, but no. You couldn’t do that. And now you’re off…who knows where. Do anything stupid and I’ll finish what my brother started.” He walked away with Seb behind him and waited until the end of the affair to hunt down Mycroft, who had left before the burial. He found the elder Holmes brother in his office at The Diogenes Club, alone, going over reports. As soon as the door closed behind him, John approached the desk and stopped halfway between the door and the desk itself.

“Where is he, Mycroft?”

“Hmm?”

“Sherlock. I was the only person there who knew that was a body-double, some poor John Doe who looks just like your brother. Me and Seb. I’m not stupid.” He kept his voice neutral and his body-language un-threatening, he needed Mycroft to trust him, “Where is he?”  
“Canada.”

“Then New Mexico, Maryland, and back this way to hit the gangs in Europe.” He nodded, “Sanja Došen and Alec Mederen are already dead. Sebastian Moran is under my protection.”

“How do I know I can _trust_ you?”

“If I wanted you dead, Mycroft, you would be.” He approached the desk and put his hands on the flat surface, leaning across it a bit, “Go read those files you can’t bring yourself to look at, put it out of your head that I need protection from you.” He thought on that for a bit and narrowed his eyes, “You might be the most dangerous person I know, Mycroft Holmes, and God help you if you make anything of it. No more threats, no more empty promises. If I get a whisper that Sherlock’s in trouble, I’ll go and get him out of it by myself. Do not risk your brother’s life to take apart _my_ brother’s empire. I can do that without your help.” Sure he’d gotten his point across, he left the office. With one hand on the door, Mycroft stopped him, just as he had that day at Bart’s.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“Where are you going?”

“To do what I do best.” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, “Keep your silly little brother out of harm’s way.” Leaving The Diogenes Club, John went home to Baker Street. He put in his two-weeks notice at his job and dedicated his time and efforts to clearing Sherlock’s name. But the first thing he did was turn himself in at The Met. The look on Greg Lestrade’s face when he showed up by himself was memorable, and heartbreaking when he explained what he’d come for. Booked in for a short list of offences that would get him a few months to a year at the most, John laid out plans for how to take apart Jim’s network before Sherlock got himself into trouble.

 

He ended up serving nine months for resisting arrest and obstruction of the lawful arrest of a wanted criminal. Although both of those last things were false. If anyone recognised him, they didn’t say, and he _knew_ people recognised him. Word of what he’d done got around pretty quick and he was left to himself. He wrote letters to Sherlock, keeping a diary of them, and took visits from the few friends he still had. Greg, Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson came when they could, a couple times a month, Seb came when he wasn’t taking the network apart from the inside.

One morning, though, he got a very unusual visitor. He was in his bunk, sleeping, when the warden came through and opened the door of his cell. He shared with three other men, who all minded their own business and left him alone for the most part. John had earned himself a nickname in prison, and everyone called him Doc. He patched up injured inmates and kept them healthy, they liked him, and even the wardens respected him. He’d earned their respect after stitching up a guard who got a decent beating in a prison-brawl. Twelve stitches, a broken nose, and a night-stick fracture to his left arm, on top of a concussion and a slew of bruises, he was out for a month on paid leave. If John hadn’t dragged him out of the brawl, he’d probably be in a coma or dead.

“Hey, Doc!” The warden called out, “Get up!”

“Christ.” he groaned, “What?”

“Up. You got a visitor.” The warden stepped aside as John climbed from his bunk after putting on his shoes. None of his bunk-mates woke up as he left the cell, yawning and stretching sleep from sore muscles.

“Not regulation visiting-hours, Warden.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The warden rolled his eyes, “Think it’s one of your informants, actually.”

“Sherlock’s Network?” He rubbed his eyes, blinking away sleep and a blurriness that bothered him. He needed glasses. Fantastic. Standing still, he was cuffed and shackled per regulations.

“Must be. Natty-looking fellow, for a Homeless, though. Nice clothes.” The warden shrugged and showed him to the day-room where inmates were allowed to interact with visitors. There was only one person in the room, aside from the warden and his assistant, there to keep an eye on things and make sure John didn’t try to run. He wasn’t about to, but his heart thudded to a halt when he caught sight of his early-morning visitor. The man faced away from them, his back to John and the wardens, but he knew that posture, he knew that…that bloody fucking Belstaff coat!

“Oh, you weren’t kidding.” He breathed, “Not one of Sherlock’s!”

“Well, he knows _you_.”

“Didn’t give you a name, did he?”

“Said his name was Scott.”

“Oh. Well, might as well see what he wants. I’m not running, you know.” He slid his gaze sideways at the warden, who took off the restraints as he stopped just inside the door.

“I _trust_ you, Watson. Don’t let me down.”

“No, sir.” John rubbed his wrists and crossed the quiet room. He took a deep breath and did something rather risky. Reaching out one hand, he touched the wool-clad shoulder, sliding his fingers over and tightening just a bit. “Sherlock.” In a heartbeat, the tall man was on his feet, coat swirling as he spun on his heel, and John almost fell over backwards as he was grabbed.

“John! Oh, thank Christ!”

“Easy, easy.” he chuckled, “Put me _down_ , you idiot.” Reluctantly, Sherlock let his feet touch the ground again, having physically lifted him in his excitement. “What are you _doing_ here, Sherlock?”

“I came to see you. I _had_ to see you. It’s been… _awful_!” Sherlock sat down again, and John sat next to him, “I never meant to get you into so much trouble, I’m so sorry. Are you awfully mad at me, John?” Sherlock had never been particularly remorseful while they’d been living together, simply doing what he pleased when and wherever he pleased with little thought to the social propriety of the thing or if anyone might be bothered by it. It seemed that a near-death experience that John wouldn’t have wished on anyone and a few miserable months away from London doing a job he shouldn’t have expected to do by himself, if at all, had changed Sherlock.

“I was at the beginning.” He shrugged and looked around the quiet room, noting the positions of the wardens inside, “When I thought I’d lost you both.”

“How did you figure it out? I never said anything.”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Sherlock Holmes.” He pushed his shoulder against Sherlock, noticing beneath the layers of clothes how _skinny_ he was, “Not nearly as smart as you, or Mycroft, or even Jim, but…I’m not stupid. I know a dead body when I see one, and you did a decent job of it that day, but I was thrilled to figure out I’d only really lost one of you, not both.”

“You’re nothing like him.”

“I never was.” John sighed and leant against his friend, “I always tried to be the sensible one, no matter what happened, one of us had to be.”

“And he was always so impulsive.”

“Kind of like you, but you’re a different breed of crazy. Yours is…relaxing.”

“And when we finally _met_?”

“I kind of half-expected the two of you to go skipping off into the sunset creating chaos and spreading mayhem in your wake. Seb and I were ready to head out and run damage-control, and oh boy did we ever.”

“Just not the kind you were expecting.” Sherlock took his hand, “I hate this. All of it. It’s disgusting, the operatives are all morons, and for some reason, they all think Jim Moriarty is still alive somewhere.”

“Jim’s a pile of ashes. I witnessed the cremation myself.” John rubbed his forehead against Sherlock’s coat, “If it’s anyone they’re talking about, it’s probably _me_. And the only thing I have planned for what’s left of the network is complete collapse.”

“What’s stopping you, then?” Sherlock frowned, trying to figure out why John hadn’t stepped up to take over his brother’s empire and dismantle it in a single sweeping blow.

“I’m in here. Not that prison would _stop_ me, a single phone-call to Seb would put things in motion.” John checked the time. The warden would have called a time-check if they were getting close to the end, but he hadn’t said much. Had he figured out who John’s visitor was and decided just this once to bend the rules a bit? Had _Mycroft_ set this up? Hmm. He chuckled. “Clever Mycroft.”

“Please don’t mention my brother’s name,” Sherlock growled, his grip tightening on John’s fingers.

“Did he know you were going to visit me here?”

“I never said I was, but he has ways.” Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumping.

“He must have said something to the wardens, they’re leaving us alone. Usually, I’ve got one standing four feet behind me, waiting for me to do something stupid.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“Nope.” John leant his head back.

“So. What _is_ stopping you from finishing the job?”

“Actually? To be completely honest?” John turned to look at Sherlock, “ _You_ are.”

“Me?”

“I’m trying to clear your name. _Our_ names.” He thought of something, “Oh, and you can stop trying to shake off Seb, he’s looking out for you. You need _anything_ out there, find him. He’ll give you safe-houses, supplies, names, locations, anything at all. You can trust him.”

“ _Moran_?! He tried to kill you!” Sherlock looked at John like he’d grown another head.

“Never had a sight on me once that day. Like I told you, Greg and Mrs Hudson were in danger, but I never was. I think Jim did that on purpose. He knew if something backfired that day, like it did, then Seb and I would find a way to finish things properly. Maybe not the way he wanted us to, but neither of us is interested in maintaining his little criminal empire.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, “It’s always something.” John smiled and leant across to kiss Sherlock on the cheek.

“You’re alright, Sherlock Holmes. Be safe out there, alright? Let Seb do his job.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got three months left in this hole and back out onto the streets of London for me. Probably back to Baker Street, if Mrs Hudson will take me.”

“Of course she would! Doesn’t she come and see you here?” Sherlock got up, ruffling his coat a bit, his eyes concerned, “You _do_ get visitors?”

“Yeah. A few.” John smiled, “Your brother, Greg, Mrs Hudson, and Seb all come to visit.” The gate was buzzed open and John looked up to see Mycroft come in, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit that cost more than he ever made in a month. His usual aloof demeanour was missing, as if he understood the futility of the attitude around John and Sherlock. It never got anything useful accomplished and John suspected the elder Holmes was a bit nervous around him these days. He would protect his loved ones first, destroy anyone who came between them or threatened them, Mycroft had nothing to worry about.

“Sherlock. It’s time.” He was quiet, respectful of the fact that he had interrupted something private. “Good morning, John.”

“Hello, Mycroft.” He smiled at Mycroft. “Take care with Sherlock, will you please? I’m a bit useless in here.” Sherlock snorted but said nothing. He wasn’t useless at all, just simply biding his time.

“Of course. His next few assignments should be relatively simple. I will, of course, keep you informed, as your own people will.”

“Of course.” John grinned and turned Sherlock by the front of his coat for a proper kiss, pulling the tall detective down to his level, nudging foreheads with him. “Please be careful out there, Sherlock. Remember what I said.”

“Yes. I will. Go home to Baker Street, John, when you get out. Mrs Hudson could use someone to keep her company.”

“Not to look after her, of course.” He chuckled and hugged Sherlock, “She’s a wise woman. Resourceful, too.”

“Mm.” Sherlock’s arms were tight, almost reluctant to let go, but John knew it wasn’t the last time he’d see the detective.

“Go on, you, back to work.” He smiled at Sherlock and waited until they were gone to let out the breath he’d been holding. The rest of his day was quiet, uneventful, and he got some more planning done. He wrote a few more letters, had some instructions dispatched to Seb, and took care of those who needed looking after.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is post-TRF, as most of the story has been. No S3 or S4, might use some bits but unlikely. No Mary, so no S3, no Magnussen, none of that mess. Wasn't terribly fond of S4, so probably won't see that. This is just me playing in ACD and BBC's sandbox, building sandcastles with the stuff that fell out.  
> ***  
> A bit of case-fic, for John anyway, Sherlock's not really going anywhere for quite a while. Implied Parentlock on John's behalf. May or may not explore that further. I think John would be a fantastic dad.  
> ***  
> bold = email/text  
> "italics" = radio/phone  
> underlined = handwriting note

* * *

Three months later, John was released and sent home, he elected to return to Baker Street. Arrangements had been made with Mrs. Hudson, who all but insisted that he come home where he belonged, and it would be Doomsday before she let him think about leaving again. After life settled into some kind of normalcy, he considered looking for a job, since he didn’t fancy depending on savings and his half of Sherlock’s estate to maintain his lifestyle. But medicine didn’t hold the same draw, it never really _had_ , so he nosed around The Met for any cold cases they felt like throwing his way. Greg went one better and gave him three boxes to work on, no rush except on a few, which had been marked, and offered a chance for live work if he felt up to it. With his name cleared, and Sherlock’s, he could go back to work solving crimes, but he didn’t feel quite up to putting himself under the scrutiny of his unwilling Met associates. So, he worked his way through the cold cases and kept close tabs on Sherlock’s movements through Jim’s network, waiting for the moment he would be required to step in.

 

Life took on a routine of sorts after the worst of the Moriarty fiasco had cleared up, John lived at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, keeping himself busy with The Met and tracking his mad best friend, taking apart the trickier threads of his brother’s criminal empire to save Sherlock the trouble. Eighteen months to the day his life had turned on it’s head, it was all over. The final show-down was spectacular, and before Mycroft and Sherlock arrived at London City Airport, John knew that he wouldn’t be seeing Sebastian Moran again. At least, not _alive_. It hurt to know he’d sent his friend to his death, but knew also that Seb wouldn’t have had it any other way. It wasn’t a cause he’d minded dying for, in the end, and had sworn his life to protect Sherlock back at the start of it when John set him to tail Sherlock in his crusade to take apart Jim Moriarty’s network. He met them at Saint Bart’s, in the morgue, to make one more identification. As he left his office at Sarah Sawyer’s clinic, she had offered him a job three months after he got out of prison on an as-needed basis for locums, he shrugged into his coat and checked his pockets for his keys and wallet. One hand strayed under the hem of his jumper to brush against cool metal as he checked his Browning. He never left the house without it these days, no matter where he was going, and no one ever knew he had it. Greg had found him a concealed-carry holster that he could wear under his clothes, Mycroft had gotten him a special license ages ago, and he wore it all the time. Nodding to Sarah as he passed her office, he waved.

“Off for the afternoon?” She called sweetly.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled back, “Got business at Saint Bart’s this afternoon.”

“Oh. Well, good luck, then.” Sarah knew all about the Moriarty debacle, the awful things he had witnessed that cold November day, and she knew Saint Bart’s was not his favourite place to be. John left without any further interruptions and was leaving Barbican Station fifteen minutes later. It was raining, so he turned up his collar and debated the wisdom of carrying an umbrella. When he stepped into the morgue, he was shaking water out of his hair and debating a towel.

“John. Over here.” Sherlock’s voice directed him and he found the brothers with Molly Hooper, gathered around a prep-table. They had warned him that it would likely take dental records to accurately identify Seb’s remains, but John knew the man better than nearly anyone else, he suspected he could make a decent identification if he had to based on whatever they had brought home. He took a minute to prepare himself, and nodded to Molly.

“Let’s get on with it.” He hated how practical, how unaffected it sounded. But he and Seb had been soldiers, served together, practical was a way of life. Molly unzipped the body-bag for him and he pulled it open after taking a pair of nitrile gloves from Sherlock. He got a bare glimpse before he had to close his eyes. They _had_ warned him, they had.

“John.” Sherlock’s hand was on his shoulder, “I’m sorry for what they did to Sebastian.”

“Not as sorry as _they_ will be.” He sighed and opened his eyes again, “Body burned beyond recognition, identifiable only through dental-records or other unique mark.” Flesh and fabric had burned together and fused, but a flap hung loose by the right bicep, where John remembered a tattoo being. Maybe it had survived? One way to find out. Moving carefully, he loosened and removed the charred identification-tags, still legible, and set them aside on a metal tray, moving next to the right bicep to see if the tattoo was still in-tact. Identification-tags could easily be switched, he would use a mark _he_ knew of to identify Sebastian Moran. Peeling aside crisped fabric, wincing as bits of flesh pulled away with it, he searched for the inked lines, found them.

“Oh, thank God.” He heaved a sigh of relief, “It’s him alright.”

“Are you sure of that, Doctor Watson?”

“Identification-tags can be switched, but no one else I know has a tattoo like this.” He pointed it out to them, “I was with Seb the night he got it. We used to joke that if nothing else could identify his body, this tattoo would have to do the job. Never thought I’d really have to.” Still remarkably vibrant against blackened skin, he could see the orange and black markings of a tiger poised mid-leap, claws extended, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl. Shaking his head, John stepped back from the table, “That’s him. I hope the people who did this to him are either running for their lives or dealt with.”

“They have been appropriately dealt with, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft said in a grim tone of voice, “Rest assured.” John nodded and left the morgue. Retreating to the bathroom, he washed his hands and his face, and fought down a wave of nausea that tried to crawl up his throat. He dealt with dead bodies regularly enough, but this was different. This was a friend, someone he _cared_ about, someone he had trusted with his own life and that of a loved one. Now Seb was dead. The door creaked open and he looked up as Sherlock’s dark head popped into view.

“John?”

“Sherlock.”

“Are you…are you alright?”

“Different when it’s someone you care about.” he leant against the sink facing Sherlock, “You’re alive, though, and that’s really what matters. Are _you_ okay?”

“No.” A quick, hesitant shake of the head, “But I wouldn’t let Mycroft’s doctors touch me.”

“Alright, let’s go home and I’ll patch you up.” He didn’t stop to think that maybe it might surprise Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was alive, and had been all this while, but Sherlock was hurt, he was exhausted, and John wanted to take him home and take care of him. He hugged Sherlock as tightly as he dared, not missing the muffled whine of pain, and wondered what the _hell_ had happened. Broken ribs, by the wheezing and way he struggled to breathe, so that warranted an X-Ray. Not leaving the hospital _quite_ yet. Lord alone knew what else was wrong.

“John.”

“Upstairs. You’ve broken a few ribs, and the way your lungs sound is worrying.” He got under Sherlock’s shoulder and led the way upstairs. He put in a word with Mike Stamford, who gave them whatever they needed, shocked to see Sherlock alive, but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t need John or Mycroft to tell him that keeping his silence would be in his best interest. Completing a full spectrum of imaging to get a complete picture, John was relieved to see no damage to the lungs caused by broken ribs, nothing requiring intervention, and a disturbing array of cuts and abrasions requiring stitches. Once he had a list of everything, and orders to have the MRI and CT results emailed to him as soon as they had been processed, he would do the review from home, John took Sherlock home to Baker Street. As he got the door open with one hand, Sherlock leaning on him on his other side, he winced at the amount of noise they were making.

“Smells like home.” Sherlock murmured. “Didn’t change while I was gone, did it?”

“No, it didn’t.” John smiled and helped him upstairs. “Come on, you, almost there.”

“How…many steps?”

“Seventeen. Guarantee that didn’t change while you were gone.” He chuckled, compensating when Sherlock staggered. They got into 221B and he steered Sherlock into the back bedroom, laying him carefully on the bed. Going back out to the sitting-room, he took a hold-all from Mycroft, who didn’t say anything. He followed the man back downstairs and stood on the stoop.

“Mycroft.”

“Yes, John?”

“Thank you.” He leant against the door, exhausted suddenly, “Thank you…for everything. You brought him home.”

“You’re welcome. Take care of my little brother, please? I do worry about him.”

“Constantly?” John smiled, remembering their earliest conversation. Mycroft, not a man of any real sense of humour, actually chuckled.

“You remember.”

“I don’t forget much, Mycroft. I don’t have a real mind-palace or anything like that, but I can hold onto memories that are important.” John stepped out of the house and stood by Mycroft at the car, holding out one hand, “Time to close that chapter of my life. With Seb dead, that’s it for the network. If anything resurfaces, let me know. _Please_.”

“Of course. You have been…patient and gracious, John. I seem to have underestimated you. Once again.”

“I was never going to be my brother, I never wanted to. It wasn’t my thing. I’ll fight crime, not commit it.”

“Save for once?”

“If you had any idea what that man was like, you wouldn’t blame me for it.” He frowned, not surprised Mycroft knew about that once, that incident that wasn’t really on any record.

“Oh, I _don’t_!” Mycroft held up one hand in a placating gesture, “No, John, I understand. You were quite restrained, very clean about it.”

“Who would think a couple of kids were capable of coming up with the idea of poisoning a cup of tea to kill someone?” He shrugged, “I’ve drugged Sherlock’s tea a few times to get him to sleep when he won’t, but I won’t go _that_ far ever again.”

“You’re a clever man, John Watson, woe be unto the man who underestimates your intelligence.”

“You’re safe, Mycroft Holmes, just remember to do right by your brother and by me.” He held out one hand, “I like you too much to do anything. Knock some sense into you, maybe, but that’s about it. You Holmes boys are very stubborn and thick-headed sometimes.”

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft took his hand and held on for a bit longer than necessary, before letting go and ducking into the car. John ducked to peek in on Anthea and smiled.

“Make sure this one gets home and gets some rest, Anthea, if you please.”

“Of course, Doctor Watson. Good day.” Anthea gave him a tight smile, meant to be threatening, but he just raised an eyebrow at her. _Don’t threaten me, I could wipe you out before you knew I was there._ Apparently, she read this threat and backed down.

“Goodbye, Mycroft. Safe travels.” He backed out and closed the door. Going back inside, he closed the street-door and locked it. As he headed upstairs to take care of Sherlock, Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her flat.

“You’re home early, dear! Everything alright?”

“Just fine, Mrs Hudson.” He smiled down at his landlady, “Just had a meeting with Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh, dear. You poor thing. Do you need anything?”

“Not at the moment, Mrs Hudson, but thank you.” He was about to wave her off but hesitated. She saw this and frowned.

“John.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” He turned around and sat down on the stairs, listening for movement upstairs.

“What happened to Sebastian Moran? He hasn’t been around in a while.”

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, you observant thing.” He rubbed his face with one hand and fished the tags out of his pocket. They were sealed in a clear evidence baggie, and he held them out to her. She took the package and looked at the tags, very quickly making a conclusion as she was able to read the information on them. Molly had cleaned them up for him before giving them to Sherlock to give back to John.

“Oh, John!” Her eyes were wide and wet, “You poor thing!”

“It was awful, Mrs Hudson.”

“How did you identify him?!”

“Those tags, and a tiger tattoo on his right arm.” John made a face, “It’s always different when it’s someone you care about.”

“You’re a good person, John Watson, always. Dark side or not. You’re good for Sherlock Holmes, even if the daft idiot doesn’t realise it.”

“I guess he’s a bit blind, isn’t he?” John chuckled and looked up at his landlady, who stood next to him, wearing a soft, sad smile, “How long have you known?”

“I may be a doddering old lady who can’t keep her mouth shut, but I’m not blind.” She reached down and touched his hair, a sweet, maternal gesture he had only gotten from her once before, “And I know Sherlock Holmes. Too vain to off himself like they said he did.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Mrs Hudson, God bless you.”

“And still not your housekeeper, so you remind that silly man of yours to keep himself in order.” She patted him on the cheek, “Now, up you go, I’ll bring up tea and biscuits in a bit.”

“Thank God for you, Mrs Hudson.” John shoved to his feet and leant over to kiss her on the cheek, “England would fall if you left Baker Street.”

“Oh, go on, you!” She rolled her eyes and smacked him on the hip as he headed upstairs, an affectionate swat she usually saved for Sherlock when he was being a silly prat and over-excited about a murder-case. He stepped through the door with a huge smile on his face and headed for the bedroom to find Sherlock face-down, hugging a pillow to his chest, naked from the waist up. John sighed and dropped the holdall on the floor, rummaging through it for a few things he needed. Going to the bathroom, he fetched a few towels to add to the one Sherlock had already laid out beneath himself. He got his flat-mate to roll over and put another one down before tucking a second into the waistband of his trousers to protect the clothing.

“Alright, you. Let’s get you taken care of properly.” He studied the alarming array of injuries, “Christ, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock whined, “So sorry.”

“Stop it, you idiot. You’re alive, you’re home, and the only person we know who’s likely to have a heart-attack is Greg.”

“Greg?” He saw a twitch of interest. He snickered and started cleaning the worst of the wounds. Some were already healed, others were quite fresh.

“Oh, you know damn well who I’m talking about, you git. Greg Lestrade, kind DI who has more patience for your stupid stunts than any one person should have.”

“More than _you_?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Mr. Holmes.” John scolded, smiling too widely to be completely serious. Sherlock snorted, which turned into a groan of pain. He worked quickly but thoroughly, and finally wrapped the ribs as tightly as he could. After he had cleaned up and washed his hands, he looked for a tee-shirt Sherlock could wear. He came up with a black tee-shirt turned inside out. Sherlock had a thing about seams and tags against his skin and usually wore tee-shirts inside out. Curious, John quickly flipped the material right-side and took a minute to just stare.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“What is my tee-shirt doing in your dresser?” He turned the shirt inside out again and sat down on the bed, “It’s not the only one you’ve got, is it?”

“Nope.”

“You silly thing.” he smiled and carefully ruffled Sherlock’s hair, “Looks like you got a shower in somewhere between Serbia and London.”

“This morning.”

“Hmm. Figures.” He sighed and leant down, carefully kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck, “Don’t you _ever_ do that again, do you hear me?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock turned his head on the pillow, “You’re not awfully cross with me, are you?”

“Not any more than I was before. Come on, sit up for me.” He helped Sherlock sit up and pulled the tee-shirt over his friend’s head. It was a matter of moments to get Sherlock out of the rest of his clothes and into a pair of pyjama bottoms. He got Sherlock out to the sitting-room and situated on the couch, wrapped in his blue dressing-gown, and in the time it took him to grab the afghan off the back of the couch, Sherlock was out. John sighed and covered Sherlock with the blanket. Satisfied that things were in order, he dragged out the boxes of cold case files and set up at the work-table, keeping an eye on Sherlock, who slept harder than John had ever seen him in all the time he’d lived at Baker Street.

The only disturbances were when Mrs. Hudson came up with tea and biscuits, which Sherlock _did_ wake up for, accepting their landlady’s fussing with a patience he didn’t usually show. But considering how long he’d been away from home, how much he had suffered, John wasn’t too surprised. After a few minutes with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock decided he was tired enough to sleep properly and John helped him back to his bed, tucked him in, and asked if he needed anything.

“No thank you, John.”

“Just doing my job, silly git. Someone’s got to look after you, won’t do it yourself anyway.” He smiled and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, which was still a bit longer than he usually kept it, glad for the familiar feel under his fingertips.

“You’re very good at that.” Sherlock murmured, rolling carefully onto his side and nuzzling into John’s hand, “Why do I deserve you, John Watson?”

“Because no one deserves to be alone or ridiculed. I’ve been both at different times in my life, you have too, and I made a promise that no one I love would ever be that way again.” He leant over and kissed Sherlock’s temple, mindful of the bruising, “No more running off without me, yeah?”

“Do you think they’d let me work cases at The Met again?”

“Once you’re officially back from the dead, you mean?” He smiled and leaned against the headboard, “Sure, I don’t see why they wouldn’t.” He stayed that way, stroking Sherlock’s hair with one hand until his flatmate fell asleep. It didn’t take long, and the minute he felt the tension leave Sherlock’s slim frame, he smiled and checked his watch. “Five minutes. That’s not bad. Sleep well, love.” He tucked Sherlock in and left after turning out the lights and pulling the black-out curtains across the window. Going back out to the sitting-room, he found Mrs. Hudson sipping her tea with a smug, content smile.

“Mark that down for ten minutes and he’s out for the count. Well done, Mrs Hudson.”

“I know a thing or two, y’know.”

“Oh I know.” he chuckled and picked up his own, untainted tea, “Funny thing that.” It was quiet for three hours while Sherlock slept a bit more, and when Sherlock woke up, John ordered out for Thai, pulled out a box of cold-cases from The Met, and they took a quiet night in for themselves. Sherlock fell asleep watching reruns of Strictly Come Dancing, his head on John's lap as he yelled at the judges and the contestants. That night, John learned how very dearly Sherlock adored ballroom dancing. And ballet. It was a passion, it seemed, he  _loved_ dancing. Watching it, doing it, anything to do with it. Rousing Sherlock after shutting off the telly, John got him to bed and slept that night in Sherlock's bed, close but not touching. It was quiet that night, to the relief of both men, and John had hope for the future. This, this peace, was why he had been so adamant about keeping tabs on what Sherlock was doing with the network, where he was and which branches he was taking apart. The only reason Sherlock was leery of touch was because of his injuries, which John totally understood.

**:::**

John was awake early the next morning, but Sherlock never showed signs of waking. That was fine, he needed to recover and sleep was the best way to do that. It was quiet until Greg suddenly arrived in a fit. John was having tea with Mrs. Hudson when his phone chimed. It wasn't the clinic, it wasn't Mycroft. Hmm. Glancing at the text, he raised an eyebrow.

 

****Text to John Watson:(09:35)** **

****Sorry about the timing, know it's early. Need your help with this one. – GL** **

 

He went to the window and looked out. Greg’s car sat at the kerb, behind it a marked Astra. This was bad.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson.” He grabbed his coat and made sure he had everything he needed, “Keep an eye on Sherlock for me, will you please? Call if you need anything, me or Mycroft.”

“Of course. Be safe, you hear me?”

“Don’t worry about me, Mrs Hudson, worry about the criminals.” He flashed her a dangerous smile, got that swat on the hip, and took the stairs down two at a time. Greg was waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, “Sorry about that, Greg.”

“No problem. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” Greg looked worried, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Tired but nothing I can’t handle.” He held the door for Greg, locking up once they were both out, and looked up at the first-floor windows, “You don’t usually show up without calling or texting first, what’s up?”

“Got a kidnapping case that went a little sideways.” Greg unlocked the door for John and he climbed into the passenger seat of the Land Rover, handing over the case-file once they were underway, “One of your old cases, actually.”

John flipped the file open and went over the reports. It was a case he had worked for The Met, by himself because Sherlock was on a nasty strop at the time and wouldn’t take anything at all, and he wondered if Sherlock knew that he’d solved the whole mess by himself. He’d had Greg’s team to help, but he’d worked out the puzzle on his own and even gone as far as chasing down and arresting the suspect on his own when the bastard slipped their net. He’d gotten more thanks from The Met than he’d gotten from Sherlock, who only berated him for being an idiot and putting himself in harm’s way for no good reason.

“It was a _4_ , John! Not worth our time!” Sherlock had sneered. John had deposited the check Greg had cut for them without arguing the point. Maybe it wasn’t worth Sherlock’s time, but they were running low on funds and food, so any little bit helped. Mycroft had stepped in and put some money in their shared account without telling Sherlock, and another mysterious deposit had come two days later. John now knew that the mystery money had come from one of two places and was grateful.

“How the hell did Michael Strader get out of prison?”

“Served his time? Who the hell knows? All I know is, that bastard’s out and now his son’s gone missing. We’ve got some ideas about where they went.”

“You need to make sure they don’t try to get out of the country.” John looked at pictures of a four-year-old boy with a gap-toothed smile and sandy blonde hair and green eyes as he pulled his phone and called Mycroft.

_“John.”_

“Mycroft. Sorry to bother you, but I need a favour.” He read the data, “I have a four-year-old boy gone missing, old case resurrected of sorts, and I need to make sure the father doesn’t try to split the country before we get the child safely recovered.”

_“Oh, of course. Do you have names and descriptions?”_

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll send over what I have to you, alright?”

_“Of course.”_

“Thank you, Mycroft.” He heaved a sigh of relief and hung up with Mycroft, sending off what he had on the suspect and the victim. He added an additional text at the end.

 

**Text to Mycroft Holmes: (09:45)**

**Left Sherlock asleep at Baker St. Mrs Hudson on watch-duty until I get back. On a case with Lestrade atm. Be in touch. – J**

 

**Text to John Watson: (09:47)**

**Understood. – MH**

 

After sending off the stats on the case, John settled in for the wait. He was out on stake-outs and patrols most of the day with Greg, splitting their time between street-sounding and working on old cases at The Met just to keep themselves occupied. An update came in over the radio around five that Michael Strader had been sighted in a nearby Tesco with a child matching the victim’s description. They were closest to the location, being out on another patrol, and Greg’s car was unmarked. John was itching as they pulled into an empty slot in front of the shop.

“Handcuffs.” He hopped out of the car, taking the cuffs when Greg held them out, “Got your spare radio?”

“Yep.” Greg rummaged in the glove-box and handed over the extra radio he carried. John wore his longer jacket today, so the radio was concealed when he clipped it to his belt. Making sure he had the radio, handcuffs, and his Browning, John patted the frame of the car.

“Go ‘round the block a bit, I’ll call in when I’ve got something.”

“Be careful, John, he’s unstable and possibly armed.”

“And I’m one of the most dangerous people in London. He’s got nothing on me.” John headed into the shop, glancing briefly at a photograph of little David Strader that he had taken from the case-file. It was a picture taken during the first case, when they had found David hiding in the bedroom closet under a pile of clothes, unharmed and alive. The picture showed David smiling as he sat on John’s shoulders, looking nothing like a murder witness. And honestly, if not for the difference in eye-color, David could have been John’s son. He had actually wondered, but never pursued it. Tucking the picture into his pocket, John scoured the store for the Straders. They were in here, he knew it, and searched each aisle, finally coming up on them in the liquor aisle.

 

As he watched them from the end of the aisle, unnoticed by Michael, who was quite obviously drunk already, John heard his phone chime. He pulled it from his pocket and read a message from Greg letting him know that a take-down team was ready to move in as soon as he gave the word. He sent back a quick affirmative and turned his attention back to David. He wasn’t certain if the boy would recognize him, but it was worth it to make a quick pass to see if he could get David’s attention. Bracing himself, John headed down the aisle towards the Straders. As he walked, he scribbled a note on a piece of paper he found in his pocket. After writing three words on the paper, he folded it into the palm of his hand and started his first pass. He stood with his back to the Straders, not missing how Michael completely ignored him but David had noticed. He smiled to himself. Perfect.

As Michael moved away down the aisle, David hesitated and John quickly turned, sliding the note into the boy’s hand with a quick pat on the shoulder and three seconds of eye-contact. Then he ducked around the end of the aisle and went down two aisles to wait. He didn’t wait long before David slunk into view. John whistled softly and waved him over when the boy spotted him. Without wasting any time, he scooped David into his arms and quickly left the shop. The minute he appeared on the sidewalk, the street came alive with activity. John counted four marked squad-cars and an ARV as he handed David off to Greg, who carried him over to an ambulance that was among the responding vehicles.

The tactical team waited outside while John took the armed officers back into the store. He stayed by the door to cover any escape Michael Strader might make. Of course, Strader panicked the minute he saw cops and started to run. John was anticipating this and took Strader to the pavement just outside the doors, kneeling on Strader’s back as he slapped on the handcuffs.

“Don’t do that, Mr Strader.” He huffed, “Consider yourself lucky this was a peaceful take-down, yeah? Could’ve been much worse.”

“Get off me!” Strader tried to throw him, but John was no novice arresting people, even though he wasn’t an officer, and he redistributed his weight until a pair of constables came to fetch Strader from him and hustle him off to a waiting squad-car. He shook off an ache in his left hand and looked down to see smears of blood. He’d scraped the top of his hand on the concrete and broken skin.

“Oh, figures.” He rolled his eyes and tugged his sleeves back before heading for the ambulance. Greg stood with his back to the ambulance, watching the street and blocking any view into or from the ambulance. John nodded to himself. Greg held out his hand, a familiar expression on his face, and John let the D.I. fuss over him.

“Gave you some trouble, did he?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” John snorted, “How’s David?”

“He’ll be fine. A little underfed and scared stiff, but he’ll be alright in time.” Greg smirked as he donned a pair of nitrile gloves and treated the abrasion on John’s hand himself. John sat down on the steps of the ambulance while Greg worked, wondering how many times they’d done this same thing in the past.

“You’re good at this, y’know?”

“Have to be, you two taught me how it was necessary to know basic skills. Actually, _you_ taught me most of what I know.” Greg glanced up at him, “Idiots kids, the pair of you.”

“ _Your_ idiot kids, Detective Inspector.” He wasn’t quite looking forward to explaining this to Sherlock, whenever he got around to it. Remembering his sleeping flatmate, he fetched up his phone and looked for new messages. Nothing from Baker Street. He sent a follow-up message to Mycroft that they had the situation managed, but he might need a ride home to Baker Street later.

 

**Text to John Watson: (17:27)**

**No trouble at all, John. If you are in need of a reliable method of transportation, just send a text to me or to Anthea.**

**A car will come fetch you from wherever you are and take you home. – MH**

 

**Text to Mycroft Holmes: (17:30)**

**Thank you, Mycroft. – J**

 

He sighed and knew that in any other circumstances, he would have been sending that kind of text to Sebastian Moran and swallowed a knot of grief that sat low in his throat.

“You alright, John?” Greg had noticed and he cleared his throat.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine.” He looked up and met clear, concerned brown eyes. Greg, one of four people who knew his exact background and history, wasn’t an idiot, and the look he gave John was that of a disbelieving father.

“Don’t lie to me, John Watson.” Greg murmured as he applied an antibiotic cream on the abrasions once he had disinfected and cleaned them thoroughly, laying several layers of gauze over the worst of them before he wrapped the lot in self-adhesive bandage-tape, “I’m not _that_ much of an idiot.”

“Sorry.” He looked over his shoulder at the medics looking after David Strader.

“Everything okay at Baker Street?” Greg asked carefully.

“Yeah. Things are…uh, things are fine.” He sniffed, “I mean, I guess…”

“John.”

“Seb.” He coughed, “Lost him, Greg.”

“Oh my God.” Greg’s face paled. He’d met Sebastian several times, they’d gotten along rather well considering they were on different ends of the law most days, but Sebastian had respected Greg for being among the smartest men they knew and for being, hands down, the smartest detective at New Scotland Yard. John and Sebastian had, quietly and anonymously, worked to get him reinstated at The Met after the whole mess with Sherlock and Jim had blown over.

“I didn’t think it would happen the way it did, but…”

“God, I’m so sorry. He was yours, wasn’t he?”

“One of our best. One of _my_ best.” John rubbed his nose with his sleeve, “He knew the risks better than anyone. I mean, for Christ’s sake, he was Jim’s right hand for so long!”

“What happened?”

“I’ll fill you in on the drive back to Headquarters.” He glanced over his shoulder, “Not something I want David to hear.”

“Christ, John.” Greg shook his head and finished wrapping his hand, cutting off and tucking the bandage, “There, that’ll hold you a while. You know the drill.”

“Thanks, Greg.” He smiled and turned to climb into the bay, “How’s he doing?”

“Scared stiff, Doc.”

“Figures he would be.” John smiled and crouched by the gurney, “Hey, David.”

“Doctor J!”

“You alright, buddy?”

“No!” Wide green eyes were shiny with tears and John felt a bit of his heart break. Deadliest man in London and he had a weakness for a child. Of course he did, he wasn’t a monster. John looked at the medics.

“He’ll need to go in, yeah?”

“Just for a basic check, probably won’t keep him. But we do need to get a line started and he won’t let us.”

“Right.” John sighed and looked at David, who curled up in a little knot of bone and muscle, trying to make himself smaller, “David? You’re not well, son, we can help you but you need to trust us. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Hurts me!”

“We _won’t_ , David. It’ll be done before you know it.” He reached out and touched a skinny, bony shoulder. He sighed, “David, did he hurt you?” The only response to that question was a shaky nod. John groaned and rubbed his face. “God damn it.”

“Bad words!” David scolded. John choked, then laughed. The medics shared an amused look.

“Oh, you smart, observant little thing! I’m sorry, David.” he smiled and touched dirty blonde hair, “You’re alright, kiddo. But you need medicine, right? These two aren’t going to hurt you, they’ll take good care of you.”

“Okay.” David uncurled a little bit and John helped him sit up on the gurney. John pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and looked at David, who looked back with wide eyes.

“We’re not going to hurt you, David, I promise. We’re going to take care of you.” He flexed his left hand in the glove and made a face. “Sherlock’s going to kill me for this.” John took the single-use sterile I.V. catheter and cannula port. He swiped at a patch of skin above the median vein on David’s left arm, remembering that he was ambidextrous predominately right-handed. He looked up at David as he tied on a tourniquet, “This won’t hurt for long, David, and you’ll feel better in no time.”

“Hug?”

“Hmm?” He frowned a bit.

“Hug?” David stretched his arms up and John realized he was asking for a hug. He chuckled and set the equipment aside, picking David up and moving to sit so that David was in his lap, crossing his arms across David’s body to hold him still without trapping him.

“Is this better, David?”

“Yeah.”

“Right you are, son.” He smiled and nodded to the medics, who made quick, efficient work of the insertion. Once the catheter was in place, they taped it securely so David wouldn’t yank it out and they started antibiotics and fluids. David plucked at John’s gloves, pulling them off, and frowned when he saw the bandages on his left hand.

“He hurt you?”

“No, David, he didn’t. I was a little careless.” John rested his chin on David’s hair, holding him but not restraining him anymore, “I’m not hurt at all, and he will never hurt you or anyone else again.”

“Really?”

“Really really.” He stroked the blonde locks, wishing they were soft and clean. He thought of something and looked at the medic who had stayed in the bay with them.

“Hey, Rob.”

“Hmm?”

“Did someone call his family yet?”

“I think Lestrade did, they’ll meet us at Evelina.”

“Okay, good. Christ, the poor kid.”

“You look beat to within an inch of yourself, Doc.” Rob Macintyre eyed him suspiciously, “Things okay with you?”

“Yeah, just had a long week is all.” He closed his eyes, “Got bad news about a friend of mine, had to go down to Bart’s and see Doctor Hooper.”

“Jesus, sorry to hear that.” Rob shook his head, “What happened?”

“Fire.”

“Christ.”

“I’ve seen worse.” He shrugged, “It’s always worse when it’s someone you know.” 

_At least it wasn’t Sherlock. Bless you, Seb, for risking your life to make sure he came home safe._

He heard a commotion and turned his head to fine Greg standing by the doors, shifting from foot to foot. It was time to go. John sighed and hated the idea of leaving David again. Rob knew this and smiled, patting him on the shoulder.

“I got this, Doc. I’ll look after your kiddo.”

“Thanks, Rob.” John smiled and squeezed David to get his attention, the boy was falling asleep in his arms, “David, I have to go now. My friend Rob is going to take care of you and make sure you get to the hospital, okay?”

“You’re leaving me?”

“I have to go now, I have work to do to make sure your dad doesn’t hurt you ever again. You’ll be okay, I promise.” He squeezed David’s hand, “Can you sit in that chair like a big boy for me and listen to everything Mr. Rob tells you?”

“Yeah.” David sniffled and they wrapped him in a shock-blanket before sitting him down in the upright seat, securing him properly. John gave in to an impulse and leaned in, kissing David on the forehead.

“Be good for me, David, alright?”

“I will.” He blinked sad green eyes and looked up at John, “Promise.” John smiled and held up one hand.

“Is that a pinky-promise?”

“Yeah.” That got a shy smile and David pinky-promised to behave himself while John was other places doing the nasty work of making sure no one ever hurt him again. Making Michael Strader go bye-bye would be disgustingly simple for him, a quick word to a few of his people still inside and it would be taken care of. But he would wait for the hospital reports before he made any calls like that. Ruffling dirty blonde hair, John squeezed Rob’s shoulder as he passed the medic.

“Hey, Rob?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“When you draw the blood-work, can you set some aside for testing?”

“Uh, yeah, standard procedure.” Rob frowned, “What did you want tested?”

“Just set one aside for genetic testing, please.”

“Oh, yeah!” Rob smiled and stuck a hand out, “You got it, boss! Good luck with the paper-work for _this_ beauty.”

“Thanks, Rob.” John smirked and shook hands with the medic. Climbing out of the ambulance, John grabbed Greg and escaped.

“Let’s go.”

“Thanks, John, you were a huge help.”

“Just doing my job.” he ruffled his hair and checked his phone. Still no messages, so he called Mrs. Hudson and asked her to check on the flat for him.

_“Of course, dear! Should I wake him up?”_

“No, just see that things are in order upstairs.” John looked sideways at Greg, who tried not to eavesdrop on the conversation, “I’ll be in as soon as I finish up with The Met.” Hanging up with Mrs. Hudson, he fired off a text to Mycroft.

 

**Text to Mycroft Holmes: (17:45)**

**Can I tell Greg? – J**

 

**Text to John Watson: (17:46)**

**Of course, if you think he can handle the truth. – MH**

 

John snorted and looked at his friend, who had always been one of their truest friends and one of his most regular visitors while he’d been in prison. Interesting how that mark on his record hadn’t kept him from going back to his work once he was out, and he suspected, no he _knew_ , that Mycroft had sealed his records and it was unlikely his little stint in prison would ever cause trouble for him.

 

**Text to Mycroft Holmes: (17:47)**

**I think he can handle it. I’m not sure he ever believed Sherlock was really dead to begin with. He’s smarter than we give him credit for. – J**

 

**Text to John Watson: (17:47)**

**Use discretion. – MH**

 

**Text to Mycroft Holmes: (17:48)**

**Technically, YOU should be the one to tell him, not me, but since you’re busy, and I’m actually in his company, I’ll do the deed. – J**

 

John fired off that last text and pocketed his phone.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked.

“Yep.”

“I can only imagine what _he_ wants.” A wrinkle appeared between Greg’s eyebrows, a sign of worry. John sighed and tapped his fingertips together. “He’s been cranky for two weeks, and then he just kind of…disappeared beginning of this one. Any idea what happened?”

“One of his agents got caught during a mission.”

“Oh Christ.”

“And I sent one of _mine_ in to help.” John shrugged, “You know how _that_ turned out.”

“Moran?”

“Mm.” He nodded as they pulled into The Met’s underground car-park. John got out and waited for Greg, knowing the pieces would come together. It was quiet as they took the lift up to the division offices, and John quietly ignored the whispers that followed him. His name had been cleared, he’d done his time, and there were still people who just wouldn’t leave well enough alone. It was getting dark out, and he sighed.

“I’ll get you out of here soon as I can, John.” Greg promised as they got into his office, “You owe me a story.”

“Sit down.” He closed the door and turned the lock. Greg handed over the paper-work and he started filling out the reports as he’d done hundreds of times in the past.

“Start talking.”

“How much do you already know? A lot of it is going to be classified.” He looked up, licking the pencil-tip out of habit.

“Well, one of his dropped off the radar, he was afraid they’d been made out and were in danger.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“He apologized for leaving without so much warning, but I’m kind of used to it. I asked if he could at least tell me where he was _going_ , he’s not real fond of field-work, and all he told me was he was leaving for central eastern Europe, would probably be gone for a few days.” Greg looked at him across the desk, “So how did you get involved?”

“He asked. Nicely.”

“And you gave him Moran.” Greg nodded absently, “Didn’t think you’d get him back like you did?”

“He was already stationed in Serbia, it was just a matter of giving him the specs and hoping for the best. He knew the risks.” John shrugged and kept writing, wondering if there was something about the paper that the pencil-lead just didn’t work right, “Really? Jesus.”

“Sorry, try this.” Greg held out another pencil, this one actually worked.

“Thanks. Anyway.” He sniffed, “What else can I tell you?”

“You wouldn’t give Moran away for just any operative, this was close to home for all of you. Any low-level flunky could have done the job, but this was bigger than that.” Greg tapped his biro against his jaw, “He did this for personal reasons, not just because you told him to. He’s a soldier, he’s wired to take orders and follow them with little to no question, especially from you.”

“Getting warmer.” He finished his reports and stacked them together, “And I’m not going to tell you.”

“You never _do_. It’s someone you both know, someone you both care about. But there isn’t a lot of cross-over between your people and Mycroft’s, is there?”

“Not as much, but there is one cross-over point.”

“Someone _you_ had him protecting, whether the mark knew it or not.”

“Not at first.” John smirked, remembering that one visit while he’d been in prison, one of several. Sherlock had visited him three times while he’d been behind bars, sometimes he visited in tandem with Sebastian. “But after a bit, he understood that he was in no danger from Moran and stopped trying to throw his tail. I had to talk to him in person when he came to find me.”

“One of Mycroft’s people?”

“Yep.”

“MI-6?”

“Far as I know.” He shrugged, knowing damn well that Sherlock was with MI-6. “Spends more time local than in the field, he’s one of their analysts.”  
“Interesting.”

“That’s one word for it.” His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it, glancing at the screen. He arched an eyebrow, it was Sherlock, but he was calling. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Greg shrugged, “You done with those?”

“Yeah.” He handed over the reports as he swiped into the call, which patched through to the Bluetooth headset he wore almost everywhere. “Watson.”

_“John?”_

“Hi, what’s up?” He frowned, there was something in Sherlock’s voice. “You alright?”

_“Where did you go? I woke up and the flat was empty.”_

“Oh, Jesus, I am so sorry. Greg came by with a case, I left you a note. Didn’t you get it?”

_“You…took a case? Without me?”_

“You needed the sleep, babe, I wasn’t about to wake you up when you’re in the condition you came home in.” He tapped his pencil on the table, “I’ll let you take the next one, alright?”

_“John Watson…solving cases with The Met.”_

“I’ve been doing it for years, silly goose.” He looked at Greg, who was tuned in to the conversation without looking like he was eavesdropping, “It’s not like this is a new thing. There’s a couple of boxes full of cold-case files in the sitting-room if you want to take a stab at them, I think a fresh perspective could help.” Greg’s eyes narrowed, then widened and he scribbled something on the notepad at his hand, pushing it across to John, who pulled it towards him to read the note.

 

Are you talking to Sherlock Holmes?!

 

I might be.

 

“Oh my God.” Greg whispered, shaking his head, “He’s _alive_?!”

“Keep that to yourself.” John murmured, “Sherlock?”

_“Are you coming home?”_

“I’m wrapping up things over here, I’ll be home soon. Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner?”

_“Angelo’s?”_

“I’ll call it in before I leave and stop by on my way back.” He smiled and reassured Sherlock that he would be home as soon as possible before hanging up. He got up and collected his coat, shrugging into it as he helped Greg straighten things up, “Yes, Sherlock Holmes is alive. No, it’s not public knowledge, and I would _very_ much appreciate it if you wouldn’t let it get around here that he is.”

“Oh god, no problem! Jesus! How did…”

“Don’t know, don’t care. It was bad enough that I lost my brother that day, I didn’t question my luck that Sherlock survived.” He placed a call to Angelo’s and put in an order of their usual to be picked up. “I’ll pick it up in fifteen minutes.”

_“You got it, Doctor Watson.”_

“Thank you, Billy.” He smiled and hung up again, “Well, that’s it then. Think you can keep your mouth shut long enough for us to pull off the resurrection of the century?”

“Yeah! No problem!” Greg grinned, “You need a ride home?”

“If you’ve got the time, I can just get a lift from Mycroft’s people otherwise.”

“You trust them?”

“Don’t have much choice.” He shrugged, “I’ll take a lift from somebody who doesn’t look at me the way Anthea does, though, any day.”

“I’ll get you home. Quick stop at Angelo’s first?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Come on.” Greg shut down his computer, scooped the night’s work into his bag, grabbed his coat, and headed out. John turned out the lights and closed the door behind him. On their way out, Greg stopped by Cold Case again and got him another box. “You’ve got two finished at Baker Street, this should keep you busy a bit longer. And no one else will touch them.”

“Thanks. Don’t your bosses have something to say about it?”

“You’re solving cases that wouldn’t get solved otherwise, and doing it by the book. The bosses don’t mind good honest work getting done. And you’re not pushy. You take your load, finish the work, give it back, and take your cheque at the end.”

“It’s income. I’m not that stupid.” John hefted the box, “Between the income from solving cold cases for The Met and working at Sarah’s clinic a few times a week, I’ve got enough to keep my head above water.”

“You didn’t touch Sherlock’s estate money, did you?”

“There’s a reason I looked for work after the funeral.” He shrugged and followed Greg out to his car, “Like the new car, by the way.”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“Always thought the Beemer was a little flashy for you. This is definitely more your style.” He patted the frame of the gray Land Rover, “More _my_ style. Reminds me of the Army.”

“You used to drive one of these, didn’t you?”

“Yep. Stopped when I got home, doesn’t do favors for someone like me to cause accidents because I thought I saw something in the road.” He shrugged, “Never mind the griping I’d get from Sherlock for my driving habits anyway.”

“Yeah, about that.” Greg looked at him sideways, “How the _hell_ did he walk away from that day?”

“Not a clue. He hasn’t been back long enough for me to ask, and it never occurred to me _to_ ask. I just figured that if he _wanted_ me to know, he’d tell me.” John watched the dark streets pass them by, “You’re awfully calm about this, most people I know would have freaked out.”

“Never believed for a minute that Sherlock would do something like off himself with suicide. Maybe an overdose, but he’s too fond of himself to commit suicide just because a charming psychopath told him to.” Greg shook his head, “Oh, sorry.”

“No, Jim really was a psycho. But, he was my psychopath. He was my responsibility.”

“You can’t save people like that, John. You were a good man to try.”

“I tried appealing to my brother’s humanity. That didn’t work so well, but at least I didn’t lose both of them that day.”

“How did Sherlock look when you got him?”

“Pretty rough shape. Whoever had him before we got him out did a real number on him.” John shook his head and unbuckled his seat-belt as they stopped outside of Angelo’s. “Be right back.”

“No problem.” Greg watched him hop out and he ran into Angelo’s. Billy was waiting for him with two bags.

“These are for you, Doctor J. Angelo says you need to come in for a proper meal.”

“Thanks, Billy. We’ll be back as soon as things calm down again. I promise.” He took the bags with a smile. Angelo knew Sherlock was alive, had responsibly fed the idiot whenever he was in London and done the same for John after he got out of prison. It was people like Angelo that had kept John and Sherlock sane during the process of taking apart Jim's network. But that whole mess was behind them, for now, and it was time to settle and wait for things to level out again. John hopped back into the Rover and buckled up as Greg headed for Baker Street. Time to see how Greg took the real thing. Talking about it was one thing,  _seeing_ it was something else entirely. And they were strung-out from the case earlier, anyway, so this would be quite interesting. There wasn't likely to be any violence, but Sherlock would probably get a hug or some kind of contact from Greg. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Brothers Moriarty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596993) by [FourCornersHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes)




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